Melianthus and Moschatel
by Shadow Logic
Summary: Almost a year after old Ebenezer Scrooge "went stark, raving mad", a second miracle finds its way to the lonely old businessman's hand, polishing the silver in a grand dam's townhouse. Bite-sized chapters. A present for The Noble Rot!
1. One Year Later

_AN: Inspired by the inimitable_ _ **forthright**_ _, a story told in bits and pieces up until Christmas Eve. Written for the fantastic The Noble Rot, who wished for Scrooge's redemption some Decembers ago._

* * *

 ** _One Year Later..._**

As the snow floated onto the street beyond the window of "Scrooge and Cratchit" like feathers, Bob wrote another name into his account book and mused. "It'll be a cold, cold night come Christmas this year, Mr. Scrooge."

A non-committal grunt came from the office further in. Bob smiled to himself, wrote a string of numbers, and resumed his musings. "Bit of a shame. The children ought be happy with their sleighs, but it'll be like last year I'll wager for the rest of 'em. Cold and unhappy."

Another grunt, followed by an indistinct mumble, reached his ears. "I hope there are kind souls about, doing…what was it that Lords Fabray and Heinrich said? 'Making slight provisions for the poor and destitute'?"

"This is a hint for me to make a donation, I take it?" The voice was cold, hard steel, and in spite of himself, Bob Cratchit shuddered, and his quill pen paused over the inkwell.

"W-well…"

"Then it is my duty to remind you, Bob, that I dined with Fabray and Heinrich on the second, and that your unsubtle hints are…" riffling pages, probably of an almanac. "Twelve days late."

Bob's quill remained frozen and dry for another second before a slow smile spread well-fed cheeks. Pen inked, Bob resumed his work. And he could have sworn there was a low, vaguely amused chuckle hidden somewhere beneath the scratch of pen on paper and the sound of the wood in the hearth.

For on this December afternoon Ebenezer Scrooge was alive, alive as the merrily crackling fire. Alive as Tiny Tim was.

Alive as Jacob Marley was dead.

And while the tongues of the city wagged about false contrition in the face of illness and damnation, Scrooge was, for the first time in his nine-and fifty years, truly, fiercely _alive_.


	2. Aspen Tree

**Aspen Tree**

"…and, checkmate." Fred toppled his uncle's king with a smile too honest and glad to be taken as gloating. One would think the checkmate was a triumph for both of them, to see Fred's face.

With a sigh and a barely concealed smile, Scrooge settled deeper into the cushions of the armchair. "I hardly remember why I even bother to challenge you, Fred."

"Because tomorrow is another day, Uncle."

Scrooge feigned a put-upon sigh. "Indeed."

It was Scrooge's habit now, to come calling on Saturdays. Even at his best, with a gentleness of manner that put new acquaintances immediately at ease, Scrooge was a man of few words. Fred, not a chatterbox himself but fond of friendly give-and-take, had finally happened upon a solution to the awkwardness of their meetings in a rather unexpected mutual fondness for chess.

"Will you be staying for tea, Uncle." Fred had dropped the questioning elevation of his voice at the end of the statement sometime in February.

"If you will have me."

"Then I shall see about some sandwiches." And with another smile, he went to hail down Anna, the maid.

Tea was served within the hour. Alice, Fred's wife, talked passionately of finding the right scarlet hue for her sunset painting ("a color that fills the heart with nostalgia", she'd informed them, tired and contented). Fred recounted some fascinating escapade of his accountant's eldest child, and gently complained of how very frustrating it could be that the boys kept holding up Ida, the attendant, at the small stationery shop he owned. They kept making offers of marriage.

Scrooge commended Alice's fastidiousness, couldn't hold in a laugh at Fred's good-natured outrage at the boys' relentless pursuit of shy Ida, and, and slowly withdrew from conversation to savor both his tea and his niece and nephew's repartee. He'd wondered often at it, the glow that two people thoroughly glad in each other's presence could produce, and often basked in it.

He thought briefly of long evenings spent in his manor, spacious and empty as a mausoleum, almost forty years of books and unlit rooms, and wondered what in the seven hells had kept him away for so long.


	3. Asphodel

**Asphodel**

Scrooge wrapped his coat more tightly around himself, a tallish, straight-backed shadow amidst carriages and passersby. The cold had begun to settle in his bones more persistently over the years, and his joints, ungrateful wretches, throbbed mightily at him on occasion.

"Mortal coil indeed." He huffed, drawing the scarf over his face to ward off the cold.

A hackney ride later, he stood outside the wrought iron gate of his destination. The winter had, of course, done away with much its plant life, and the monuments, covered as they were in snow, gave the impression of a little toy village.

Scrooge jolted as a long, forlorn sigh he had been hardly aware of heaving became caught in the scarf still covering his nose and mouth. He drew the fabric away, and stepped into the cemetery with the reverence some men employ to step into Parliament.

* * *

The stone of the grave he sought was well cared for. Scrooge would have found it, even if it had been buried under endless blankets of snow, but it was not. Its top had but a few clumps, while its face was clear. A well-cared for grave. He knew it was often adorned with Baby's Breath in the Spring.

With little thought to his increasing baldness, Scrooge took off his hat, laying his silver hair bare to the cold. He tucked it to his side, grave and meticulous, and bowed to the small monument as if it were Queen Victoria.

 _Good afternoon, Little Fan. I had tea with Fred, your Fred, just Yesterday. He is well…_

By the time he had finished recounting the current state of his life to the last earthly abode of his little sister, the roots of Scrooge's hair had become quite damp with melting snowflakes.


	4. For He so loved the World

**For He so loved the World**

Reverend Remmele (for this was the name of the man in charge of the church outside of which little Fan was interred, a curious, alliterative name for a curious, quite singular minister of the Anglican church) regarded the gentleman before him with the same quiet kindness he reserved for every last person in his parish.

The reverend had seen many things in his long life, but few of them bore any resemblance to Ebenezer Scrooge. From absolute shrew of a man, pinching pennies at the funeral of his own longtime partner and perhaps only friend, Mr. Scrooge had one day come to him, missing the solid iron curtain in his eye and manner.

Reverend Remmele had received him with his usual respect, and yet not a little distance. Too many of his parishioners had grown to love the Kingdom of Heaven from a selfish, primal terror of the opposite domain; he had learned to live with it, but had come no closer to liking it.

But then there came Ebenezer Scrooge whom, in the span of a year, had developed in spirit more than many of his fellows would by the time they took their last mortal breaths.

Ebenezer Scrooge, who'd begun calling briefly at his home every time he visited the grave of Fan Scrooge.

Ebenezer Scrooge, who'd asked, haltingly, over tea and crumpets, if a soul that had been damned could somehow be aided, even accompanied in suffering by his mortal kin. Who shunned the Poor Box publicly, unlike the flashier princelings of the town, who sought the blessing of the masses before the blessing of the Lord. Who sallied out into Cheapside, into the darker, dirtier streets, discretely lending a true hand, a constant hand, to those who needed him.

So when Ebenezer Scrooge called briefly at his house, simply to pay the Reverend his respects at the door before heading home, full of _no thank you, no tea today, Mr. Remmele,_ the older man carefully slid his glasses back up onto his large nose (a nose with great personality, Mr. Remmele liked to think) and held up a hand.

"How goes your research of texts for the Salvation of the Damned? I am afraid you may have incited a lonely man's hopes in holding intelligent conversation."

Scrooge nodded, but only slightly. "I am but a moneylender, Reverend. What could I know of Salvation?"

Reverend Remmele nodded, even as a hearty laugh bubbled up and down inside his chest, safe from all but God's Ears. How hard Mr. Scrooge pretended to be ever set in his ways! "And we are both but mortal men, Mr. Scrooge. By such reasoning we ought never crack open a book, weighed down as we are by our imperfection."

Mr. Scrooge again nodded, saying nothing. His eyes turned left, a sure indication that he was about to excuse himself, with many an apology about keeping the good reverend out in such weather. That would not do: the Reverend produced a polite, yet audible, clearing of the throat, which delayed the excuse for just a minute.

Just enough.

"I will not force any studies upon you, Mr. Scrooge. I will, however, remind you that Salvation is a gift, not a reward."

"So…it matters nothing, what the would-be recipient does? He is doomed? To wander and…bear the weight of his chains, even when he has spared others, far guiltier than he?" Scrooge's face never changed, but there was an added tension, a new gravitas that wasn't there before at his answer. Guilt and shame.

"On the contrary: he is saved. In the eyes of the Divine, he is beloved, and will receive said gift regardless of how unworthy he may be."

* * *

 _ **AN: I apologize in advance to The Noble Rot (Master's Degree in Religion, Master's Degree in Philosophy, concentration in Ethics, and voracious reader), if I've botched it anywhere!**_


	5. French Willow

**French Willow**

 _(A piece of crumpled parchment lies at the bottom of the wastebasket situated by the tall, stately desk. It will be burnt come morning, but for now, it occupies the place alone, as its writer lies, awake, in the four poster bed two rooms away, despite the late hour.)_

Lord,

I do not pretend to understand strikeyour/strike strikeYour/strike a deity's reasons and motives. The reasons we are here, on this Earth, the reason we live as we live, is pertinent only to said deity. We must but live, and live well, in the service of our fellow men, if the occurrences of a year ago are to be given due credence. And give credence to them, I do.

I will not lie and say I do not have certain grievances with the way things happen on this earth of ours, because as well strikeyou know/strike strikeYou know/strike it must be known in the Heavens, I do. I detest the way my fellow men fall to their knees, then upon their very faces, and suffer until they die for the low sin of having been born this way or that: poor, infirm, too forward, too timid. Too this, too that.

I could go on, forever, on the injustices and pains of the being of earth, and why they hurt as they do. But I shall not.

Because I, for some unfathomable reason, was spared all of these for the better part of my life, then spared all of them entirely, through the mercy of my friend and once partner Jacob Marley. Because I sit at the very mouth of a Cornucopia, my body sated and well, and capable of sating the stomaches and hearts of others.

A German pastor once told me the reason men do evil upon others, man and beast alike, is from abuse of the gift of free will, and that it is the will of God, "by way of His love", that we keep this gift and are not restrained by invisible forces when we raise a hand against our fellows. I do not pretend I understand this, but once more, I vow to, at the least attempt to. But-

 _(A large blot of ink, obscures what would have been the next paragraph. A few unsure quill scratches follow. And then.)_

I believe I am quite angry at you, God. And I shall make no apologies for it.

You gave me one chance. You cannot stop the living, but it appears the dead follow no such rule. If it is at all possible, if the wails of one man, as unworthy as the others, as like an insect upon a leaf, are indeed important to you, as the pastor Remmele always says, forgive Jacob Marley. Forgive him. Deliver him from his chains and his bonds.

I would take his place, in death. If such a thing were possible. If you would but stop feigning deafness, stop playing the part of overindulgent parent, and right but one wrong, I would shoulder the sins of a hundred worthier souls.

 _(a jagged line, as if drawn in distraction. And then nothing.)_


	6. Saint John's Wort

**Saint John's Wort**

"…and of course, this is Mr. Scrooge, one of our most prominent benefactors." Scrooge bowed to yet another Man-in-a-suit, and exchanged vague pleasantries with him before Lord Fabray led him on.

If there was one thing he hated, truly and sincerely, it was being dragged to the balls and banquets of the rich and elegant. Young Lord Fabray wasn't quite as adverse, which served him very well when it came to his yearly collections, but Scrooge bitterly regretted having agreed to accompany him to this or that countess' soiree.

Vicious and small-spirited as he'd once been, Ebenezer Scrooge had nonetheless been honest in his contempt at the world. Then, as before, he hated the quiet tittering, the posturing and false humility around him – perhaps more now than he ever had.

But it had looked like an escape to his chafing thoughts and upset heart. Scrooge's soul was still haunted by the emotions of the night he'd attempted to write That Letter, though his usual quiet disposition hid him from suspicion. Cratchit probably harbored some misgivings, as evidenced by the particular color of the chatter he directed at his business partner throughout the day, but no direct approaches were attempted on his mood, and Scrooge was grateful.

"Look alive, Scrooge! Harriet's painted fan informs me Countess Fairweather will approach us next." The young man made some subtle finger gestures at his wife, who was clear across the room with a gaggle of ladies, in response. They'd lived in India, they'd told him once. As if that somehow explained how they'd developed a secret language, or how they tackled the communal intricacies of English society, charming every last of these rich sinners with their enviably efficient teamwork.

The poorhouses and orphanages never had better allies, Scrooge wagered.

"Upon my word, Fabray. I'd have thought I'd been breathing, blinking and moving enough all night to assure you that I am."

A small, fleeting grin. "You? Blink? Perish the thought." And then a rotund woman in white materialized out of thin air before them.

"Ohhh Fabray! Capital, capital!" She twittered at his companion for a moment, sprinkling French here and there in her lengthy discourse about the room and the couples, the champagne and someone's dress. He and Fabray did manage a few words in, but mostly they were swept away in the maelstrom that was Countess Fairweather.

When he was at long last steered away, Scrooge glanced inquiringly at his companion.

"The countess will gladly lend us her support in all things concerning the small orphanage off Baker street."

"Good, good."

"But we've agreed to tea, tomorrow."

Scrooge did believe he'd never possesed a stronger urge to declare something 'humbug'.


	7. Snakesfoot and Spindle Tree

**Snakesfoot and Spindle Tree**

"…and then my daughter was granted the honor of a dance with Colonel Willoughby! Simply imagine it!"

Harriet Fabray gasped and held delicate gloved hands to her cheeks. Her husband offered a discrete, conceding nod. Scrooge availed himself of his reputation of distance and disinterest, content to simply raise an eyebrow.

 _What would the countess have to say, one wonders, if she were to discover that Harriet makes similar gestures when her daughter, who is not five, shows her one of her rag dolls?_

But the story of whatever new wonder had visited the viscountess was far from over. When the next moment of awe was upon them, Scrooge hastily reached for his cup of tea, intending to time the forced exclamations with a long drink.

Rapid hands toppled a pear conserve sandwich instead. A brief silence ensued, followed by an intake of breath like an old manor house, sighing in the midst of a storm."

"Oh Mr. Scrooge, how _dreadful_!" Countess Fairweather put a hand to her great bosom in apparent commiseration. "And that was the last of the pear sandwhiches!"

"I apologize, madam, for my- "

"Oh nonsense!" The dame was already rising to her feet. Everyone in the room braced themselves for an almighty, unladylike holler, but the countess simply waved her hand at some point behind the armchair Scrooge occupied.

"Oh Belle! Could you please be a dear and go ask Cook for some more of the conserves?"

And Ebenezer Scrooge's heart stopped beating for all of a second.


	8. Marjoram

**Marjoram**

Scrooge saw her up close for all of five seconds, a precious five seconds, when she approached the tea table with a tray of bonbons and sandwhiches, and then to clean up what remained of the fallen pastry.

It was her.

She was, in her golden age, an older woman with an oval face, lined almost with elegance, and the slightest impression of rich brown hair, silvered here and there, peeking from under her maid's cap.

Her eyes were still bright and alert, if tired, and her hands were careworn. Some invisible demon, in transit to Hell most likely, suggested that Scrooge reach out to hold them as they retreated from the tray's silver handles.

Belle's presence was like a burning stove as she knelt in the vicinity of his feet to clean the carpet, unseen, but keenly felt. Had Scrooge not been a man of admirable sang-froid, he might have bolted from the room.

She left, quiet as a shadow (when, _when_ had that happened? Belle, who'd lit up rooms when she entered them, a ghost in black and white), and was seen no more that night.


	9. Herculean Labours

**Herculean Labours**

"I must apologize, Mr. Scrooge, for having taken you from your family on the day of your customary visit. And…the countess, she was as she has always been, I fear."

"…"

"I would spare you any further visiting, but there is much to be said for the power of persuasion, in the form of your vote of confidence."

"…"

Lord Fabray gave his companion a concerned glance as the Fabray family carriage bobbed up and down the snowy streets. In profile, Ebenezer Scrooge could have been a statue, gloved hands resting upon his cane, small dark eyes lost somewhere out the window.

He would have assumed Scrooge had heard nothing in another minute.

"But if I were to quit, who would you send after the lion, Eurystheus?"

Lord Fabray swiveled around so fast, his hat nearly flew off his head. "I say!"

"Are you surprised over the reference, or my weak attempt at humor?"

"I have never believed you an uncultured boar. But neither did I think you a jokester."

At long last, a chuckle rumbled out of the old man. Fabray's easy disposition could not help another prod, however. "According to your casting, are you Hercules?"

The answering laugh was laced with something bitter. "I am, Fabray. Most assuredly, most unfortunately…I am."


	10. Sweet Williams

**Sweet Williams**

Had a profoundly worried Fred not insisted on taking him on a stroll near the stationery shop, that next Saturday after tea, the encounter never would have happened.

Some form of divine intervention had barred Scrooge and his companions from the house of Countess Fairweather, despite continued invitations from the grand dam (the Fabrays were busy, another fundraiser required their attention, little Mary Fabray was sick at home). But the encounter had not left Scrooge's mind. He did not plan or plot or intrigue: his mind simply appeared resolved to linger upon the moment, reliving it once and again.

With such material causes for worry, the shadow upon Scrooge's soul had lifted considerably, but in a remarkably ironic turn of fate, it was his disposition _now_ which became the cause for concern.

So, there Scrooge was, standing in wait of Fred outside a shop he'd refused to enter, watching passersby and hackneys, and the occasional enthusiastic child, amidst the snow-and-sludge. He craned his neck to follow a particularly fine hackney horse down the street, and his line of sight moved sideways to happen upon a slight figure, wrapped in a worn brown shawl, making her way out of a shop two doors down.

 _Belle_.

 _Over fourty years I wondered after her, and suddenly I see her twice within the same month with no effort on my part whatsoever._ If Jacob could but pause his wanderings for a moment, he'd surely be laughing uproariously at him.

Belle wound her way through the crowd walking against her with surprising agility, basket in hand. She'd emerged from the milliner's, so she was perhaps picking up something for her mistress.

Before reason caught up to them, Scrooge's feet had wound their way around the crowd, towards her.

"Miss Belle." Somehow, she heard him over the din of footsteps, hoof steps and people. She bowed, basket and boxes close to her chest.

"Ebenezer."


	11. Salt of the Earth

**Salt of the Earth**

She did not take his proffered arm. She thanked him for his help with her packages with a bow.

Her voice was but a shadow of the girlish one he'd heard last, but it was hers, and Scrooge would fall face first in the snow, if only to hear it one more time.

They had passed from the busy commercial streets and had turned into the quieter roads of the rich and affluent homes.

"I…" Beside him, at least a meter between them, Belle gave no indication that she was listening. Scrooge powered forward. "I believed you well. Married." _Happy_. He had asked, but once.

"I am not unwell, Ebenezer." Formal and distant, yet kind. Her manners were as they had been. Belle was not given to anger, but she was proud, proud as befitted a good woman: she would not be disrespectful, but she would not pretend he was an unknown gentleman, nor would she meekly call him "Mr. Scrooge".

"Indeed." He breathed the cold, cold air and felt his nostrils stick to each other. "I simply…believed you living under different circumstances."

"I was engaged to marry, but never did. John died at sea five years after we met." There was a tenderness in the simple phrase. A wretched, heartfelt tenderness that broke Scrooge's heart, as if a crevasse had opened down the middle of it.

Belle, he knew, was destitute, with no family anywhere to lend her a hand. Without a marriage formalized, she would not have been entitled to anything in the way of an inheritance.

And yet there she was, alive and well, as she herself claimed. Belle had struck him as quiet and spectral, but walking beside him as if without a care in the world, he detected an air of gladness to her. Of content.

 _Once again Belle, I stand before you, as always I have: rich and profoundly unworthy._


	12. Hawthorn

**Hawthorn**

If anyone had told him at this time, in November, that he'd be yearning for the haunting he'd endured a year before, Scrooge would have laughed, low and incredulous.

But such was his situation, as he sat on the edge of his bed, curtains thrown open in the wee hours of the morning.

What would Jacob say, if he were alive?

Not still alive, for Jacob Marley had not been kind in life, close as their hearts had been. No…if Jacob Marley were to come alive now, free of his chains, what would he say?

 _So, Ebenezer Scrooge. Life has brought to you, once again, the woman you loved in your youth, and the only woman you have loved in your life. What in the seven Hells will you do now? How does one court a woman once abandoned? Because abandon her you did, Ebenezer. Abandon her you did…_

"What in the seven Hells indeed, Jacob." He lay a weary head upon the closest wooden post, and closed his eyes.

From the very depths of memory rose the image he had traversed with the Spirit of Christmas Past. An old schoolhouse, a lonely child…and the kindly sister who, in the course of a year, exorcised every last demon from their harsh father.

For love of him.

"And what say you, little Fan? What would _you_ say?"

He'd visited Fan so little after she'd been married, but Scrooge's memory was gold. The voice of the young woman that had once been little Fan traveled out from the depths of memory, clear and low, like the caress of clean winter winds.

 _"_ _You have a second chance, Ebenezer. Do you still love her? Yes? Then a second chance it is. How does one go about putting to rights what once you…well, upset?" The Fan in his mind was in Fred's home; she glided to the window beside the piano her daughter-in-law often played, touching tiny white fingers to the frosted glass. "Is it not Christmas soon, Ebenezer?"_

And Scrooge sat up, propelled to his feet with the force of epiphany. Still in his nightclothes, he ran to his study, for the first time in a long time grateful for the solitude of the manor house.


	13. December the 12th, 1844

**December the 12** **th** **, 1844**

Belle Smith, as the head maid of a large manor house, woke quite early in the morning, and went to sleep quite late. Her small quarters were nevertheless larger than the quarters of all the maids under her care, and she had the honor of being alone in her room.

She was also the first up, and therefore one of the first at the door when the bell was rung.

"Good morning! A Miss Belle Smith?" It was a young boy, no livery. A boy idling on a street corner, tipped to make a delivery, no doubt.

"That would be me. But…"

"I have a delivery for Miss Bell Smith."

"From whom?"

"From a man with a top had and a black coat."

Belle sighed.

* * *

When the wrapped package yielded a jar of pear conserves, larger even than the one in the Fairweather pantry, Belle no longer wondered about the giver.


	14. December the 13th, 1844

**December the 13** **th** **, 1844**

"Missss Beeeelleee…are you over here? Missss Beeeelleee…oh!"

"Good evening, Violet."

"Ohhh Miss Belle! Whatever are you doing in the dark like this?"

"The oil in the lamp ran out."

"Well aren't you lucky I came looking for you? I have my own candle after all and…oh!"

As the jagged little circle of light fell upon the table Miss Belle was sitting at so despondently, it revealed a pair of the finest gloves Violet had ever seen. They weren't spectacular gloves, not like the ones she would have when she married a prince and had twenty silk pairs, all embroidered with pearls, oh no no no. But these rather suited Miss Belle better, these doe brown gloves made of something warm and sturdy, probably lined for extra warmth.

"What beautiful gloves you have, Miss Belle. Are they an early Christmas present from someone?" To Violet's knowledge, Miss Belle had nobody in the world: no children, no husband, no sisters or brothers, or even elderly aunts. And, also to Violet's knowledge, expensive gloves were not a casual present from a distant friend or acquaintance.

Expensive gloves were, and here Violet's eyes widened and she gasped, a courting gift.

Miss Belle put two fingers to the bridge of her nose and sighed in exasperation. "They are indeed a gift, Violet, but I would suggest you get back to the kitchen, as it is not yet the end of the day, Cook needs you, and Madam Fairweather is about."

Violet stared. "This isn't like you, Miss Belle."

"No indeed, Violet. But I am quite unwell today, and you are being…quite forward."

"Very well, I shall leave you, then." As she retreated with the light, leaving Miss Belle in shadows again, Violet wondered if love made older people cranky, or if it was simply a fantastically strong headache.


	15. December the 14th, 1844

**December the 14** **th** **, 1844 (morning)  
**  
Miss Belle Smith,

You shall find enclosed a package containing three (3) silk handkerchiefs, embroidered. I most kindly wish you find them to your liking.

Regards,

E.S

* * *

 **December the 14** **th** **, 1844 (evening)**

Mr. Ebenezer Scrooge,

While deeply grateful for the gifts, I must express concern at this sudden influx of presents. It pains me to be so direct, but I must ask you what their purpose is.

Regards,

B.S


	16. December the 15th, 1844

**December the 15** **th** **, 1844 (morning)**

Dear Miss Belle,

The gifts are but that, gifts, and as such freely given.

You shall find enclosed a book that I hope is found to your liking – it can be returned and changed if it is otherwise. The same applies to any previous gifts, of course. I am deeply shamed to have never suggested it before.

Kind regards,

E.S

 _(Enclosed was a handsome edition of "The Nutcracker and the Mouse King")_

* * *

 **December the 15** **th** **, 1844 (evening)**

Mr. Scrooge,

The book is indeed to my liking, as you no doubt suspected it would. As are all previous gifts.

There is nothing freely given in life.

Regards,

B.S


	17. December the 16th, 1844

**December the 16** **th** **, 1844**

Miss Belle Smith,

Far it be from me to assume, but I shall nevertheless strive to complete the interlinear message of your previous letter. There is nothing freely given in life, you wrote. There is nothing freely given that comes from that disagreeable, ill-mannered miser that is Ebenezer Scrooge, you thought.

Up until a year and nine days ago this Christmas, I was indeed a disagreeable, ill-mannered miser. I remember a young girl, not one and twenty, much like you in countenance, who quite disliked gossip and rumor, so I shall assume the same of your person. You may therefore not be aware that, a year and nine days ago this Christmas, and for all the intervening days and months, it has been said that I have taken leave of all my senses. It has been whispered that I am a profoundly altered man. Some whispers have even suggested I retire to Bedlam.

But the truth, if I may be so bold as to presume to know it, is different.

I once believed myself in love with a golden idol. I now understand that I clung to that idol, in the stupid conviction that it would remain with me if everyone else were to abandon me. The result, instead, was that my obsession with the idol brought about the abandonment. I laboriously built my own misery, and became ever more dedicated to it, until I was subjected to repeated blows of truthfulness and saw, with frightening clarity, that I was a man doomed. I now work quite as laboriously as before to reverse the evils I have brought upon others.

But, through it all, I remained faithfully in love with another idol, one that I should have taken care to worship more vehemently than I did.

I was, however, unworthy of its love. Then and now. All I request is that I be allowed to kneel at its altar, and sing it clumsy praises.

Kindest regards,

E.S

* * *

 _(There was no answering letter that day)_


	18. December the 17th, 1844

**December the 17th, 1844**

Miss Belle Smith,

Enclosed find the gift intended for the previous day, and the gift I intend for today. I also wish to assure you that, save for accepting both this letter and the presents that go with it, I demand nothing of you. Etiquette, I know, demands an answer. Hang etiquette and hang the answer, I say.

Kindest regards,

E.S

 _(Enclosed was a shawl, a sturdy, dependable thing that nevertheless looked like it had been knitted from the very spirit of autumn, all red and brown._

 _And a tin of coffee._

 _The old coffee tin contained a little silver ring, clean and untarnished, that had once sat on the finger of a Miss Belle Smith as she walked on the arm of her fiancé, promising young businessman Ebenezer Scrooge)_

* * *

 _(There was no answering letter that day)_


	19. December the 18th, 1844

**December the 18** **th** **, 1844**

The three sharp knocks on her door, sudden and shocking as they were in the silence of her room, felt strangely expected as soon as the surprise died down. Perhaps she'd been expecting them all along, from early that morning, when no letters came. "There is someone here to see you, Miss Belle."

Had she ever felt so tired before? "Is there now."

"Yes, just beyond the bed where the dahlias grow, in the garden."

"Very well. I shan't be long…" And she draped one of her older shawls tight around her body.

Belle Smith had known her hardships. A young orphan with a tiny inheritance, she had mostly made her own way as a shop attendant here, a maid of alljobs there. Twice in her life she'd believed she'd found love, and once, by happenstance, that love was paired with a promise of security, an end to her struggle. She'd taken the promise as further proof of Ebenezer's love for her, not as any indicator of future wealth, and labored on.

All in all, she'd done well for herself. Save for a small stretch of time immediately after news of John's death made their way home, she had had a roof above her head, food on her table, and kindling in her hearth. The stigma of the old spinster dogged her footsteps, she knew, but Belle Smith had battled larger ogres than a few tittering young girls here and there during Market Day. She could even brave her own mirror and throw the autumnal lady that looked at her from the glass, silver roots and all, with something like pride. She was not young because she had lived, and that was a triumph.

And yet there was a tremor in her steps as she descended the final staircase and crossed the bustling kitchen, a faint shake in the joints of her hand that had little to do with her age and her labors.

But she would confront Ebenezer Scrooge with her head held high, just as she had all those years ago.

* * *

Her nemesis was waiting for her in the dormant gardens, though not alone. A young man with a merry shock of light brown hair was idling a few meters away, in all probability feigning deafness, as he examined a little ledge, decorated in faux Greek plastering.

Upon her arrival, Ebenezer swept her a very low bow.

"Miss Smith." That gave her pause. She was "Miss Belle" to everyone, and had been so to him in their correspondence.

"…Mr. Scrooge." Belle returned the bow with a curtsey, keeping Ebenezer in her sights through lowered lashes. "This…hardly seems appropriate." Unattached men holding interviews with unattached maids, alone in in winter-shriveled gardens, were only slightly less scandalous when one was not titled and over the age of thirty. The chaperonage of the young fellow (who'd gone on to look at the frozen fountain with genuine admiration) improved things only slightly.

"Rest assured, madam, that propriety and the protection of your honor were paramount to me. Lord and Lady Fabray asked us to step out as they discussed certain business, and Fred insisted on the head maid showing us the garden as we waited."

As if aware of his name being spoken, the man (Fred, was it?) turned around and waved, an amicable openness in all his gestures. Belle felt her eyes widen and her breath stop for all of a second as the crinkles of his smiling face seemed familiar, then gave way to the realization of who he was. _Lord in the Heavens, that must be Fanny's boy!_

Ebenezer straightened, his hat in his hands, commanding Belle's attention again. How remarkable it was, that he looked both so different and yet so much like himself. She'd recognize him anywhere, despite the lines and deep shadows that age had brought to his face.

"I must apologize for my actions over the past few days." Belle did not become outwardly impassive, but inside, her heart was sent reeling. "Over the past few decades." He looked to the snowy ground, and then back into her eyes. "I have used you so ill, I should not be allowed in your presence."

Beneath the shawl, Belle tightened her arms around herself. Her heart felt like a child during a rainstorm, hiding in the furthest corner of her ribcage, sobbing in silence amidst mighty claps of thunder. "They were the choices you could not but have taken, Ebenezer." All pretense must be cast aside, she resolved. "Now, I understand, you know better." It wasn't forgiveness in its absolute form, but it was what she could give him.

Belle had thought she'd forgiven him, many long years ago: she remembered him without pain or sorrow. She wished him well, with all of her heart. She'd even wished him well that night in her mistress' parlor, cleaning fallen pear sandwhiches, with his fancy shoes at the edge of her field of vision.

Until he'd come after her again. Until he'd had the cheek to offer himself again to her (because that was it, wasn't it? It was a courtship dance, of sorts, this thing they were entangled in), and she'd felt her own traitorous little sparrow of a heart, poised for flight, as if she were not nine and fifty, but thirteen, twelve even.

Foolish.

Ebenezer paused, as if to rally his strength. "And yet here I am again, having wronged you." Belle's heart again lost its peace when she recognized a gesture: a subtle fingering, as if on an awkward piano, of his fingers on the brim of his hat. Her Ebenezer had done that, standing outside her tiny house after a vicious fight, standing before Master Fezziwig after some terrible slip of his in the accounting.

Ebenezer was, however, oblivious to her discomfiture. "I have once again cornered you into a choice, with my ever clumsy words…" Shoulders sank, and Ebenezer seemed to crumple into himself. "It would be all things right and appropriate to take leave of you and never disturb your peace again. And in that course of action I would, again, rob you of your choices." He rummaged about his person, producing a very thin envelope.

"And this is…?"

"A few things. We…hold a Christmas party, every year, with a few friends and business associates." He curled his hands in front of him, tight and still as a knot of rope – a new gesture, one her Ebenezer had never used. His nerves led to movement, never stillness. "Should you desire to see me ever again…please…do come. I will presume to nothing but friendship, should you do, of course. But I have forced myself into your life, selfishly, and I wish to cede control of who enters and who leaves it back to you."

Belle tucked the envelope away behind her shawl. Beneath the wool, safe from prying eyes, her hands gripped it convulsively against her chest. "I understand."

And Ebenezer, speechless again it appeared, swept her a final, respectful bow.

* * *

 ** _To The Noble Rot_** _: Merry Christmas, dear friend! I hope you've enjoyed the story so far. "How will it end?" you'll surely be asking. Well…that is up to you. :D_


End file.
